


Let Me Get What I Want This Time

by voodoochild



Category: Ashes to Ashes
Genre: Desk Sex, F/M, Handcuffs, Obedience Kink, Plot What Plot, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-03
Updated: 2010-06-03
Packaged: 2017-10-09 21:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some would call it a game. Alex would call it revenge by proxy. Keats would call it an excellent opportunity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Get What I Want This Time

**Author's Note:**

> Written for odditycollector, for the prompt "Alex/Keats, obedience". Takes place in a nebulous post-3.05/pre-3.06 time period, so consider yourself warned for major 3.05 spoilers. Title from the Smiths' "Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want". Thanks to Carla for the sounding board and shameless encouragement.

She's going to kill him. Slowly, creatively, and possibly utilizing that sodding pen he's always clicking, and half of CID will probably thank her. What the hell does he think he's doing, handcuffing her to her desk in the middle of CID?

She supposes his timing is impeccable, if nothing else.

It's a slow day. Half the team is out on routine cases - burglaries, crack-ups, corner-store blags - and the other half is just about clearing out. Ray's finishing up the Stephens paperwork - he'd lost the coin-toss they've taken to using to divide up the Inspector duties - Gene's sulking in his office with a copy of the evening paper and half a bottle of whiskey, and Chris and Shaz are noisily finishing up work and are making plans for the pub. It's not exactly the best time to be handcuffed to your own desk with the key sitting in front of you, burning a hole in your vision, but it could be a hell of a lot worse.

Because that's what she loves about Keats, he's creative and knows exactly what buttons of hers to push. He'd come up to ask Shaz a few questions about Kenny Barnes's statement (caught red-handed selling heroin about ten meters from a school, but he swears it's not him) and sling some thinly-veiled insults at Gene before coming to a stop by her desk.

"Trust me, Alex?" he'd asked, and well, she does. Mostly. Not entirely, but mostly, and that's more than she can say for Gene these days. She'd nodded, and he pulled the cuffs off her belt, snapping one on her wrist and the other to the underside of the desk. She'd almost panicked, shouted at him, but he had put a finger to his lips and placed the key in front of her, leaning down to speak softly into her ear. "Ten minutes, or until everyone is out of this office. You can unlock them any time you like. I'd appreciate it if you didn't. If you make it the entire time, I'll fuck you nice and proper. If you use that key, you won't get anything."

He'd sauntered back out the door, leaving her trying not to shake in what was mostly anger with more than a little arousal thrown in. He knows, damn him, exactly how long she's gone without sex. Knows what sitting there and counting down will do to her. And if she has to think on her feet, come up with reasons she can't leave with Shaz and Chris, or get up and help Ray with paperwork, or go drink at Luigi's with Gene - well, it'll rile her up even more.

And so, four minutes gone, six to go, and she's already plotted his death fifty different ways and stared so hard at Richard Inman's toxicological report she's imprinted the words _"death by renal failure brought on by an overdose of methadone"_ on her retinas. But every time she looks up and blinks to clear her vision, she sees that little silver key resting on the desk, and feels the just-this-side-of-hard tug of the cuff on her wrist.

"Ma'am?"

She looks up to find Chris and Shaz smiling down at her. Oh, fuck, can they see? Is her hand far enough under the desk?

"Yes, what is it?"

"Chris and I were going to be off for some takeaway. There's a new Indian place down on Surrey Road - you want to join us?"

Okay, deep breaths, smile, pretend like you're not about to jump out of your skin. Lie like you haven't needed to in a while. "Thank you, but no. I've got this tox report to finish reading, and I promised I'd check on Mrs. Inman. She's been worried about receiving Richard's benefits, so I told her I'd go over them with her. But thanks for the invitation."

Chris nods, starts to take Shaz's hand but remembers they're not together any more. Shame, she'd really wanted those two to work out. They bid her goodnight, and take off out the door. She glances at the clock - five minutes, fifteen seconds left - and turns the page on the tox screen, making a note for the coroner to check Inman's blood count, no history of anemia, but something the wife said-

"I'm shoving off," Ray says, slamming the witness report down on his desk in triumph and causing her to jump. The cuff has no give, of course, and it digs in, sending bright pain sparking through her. Ohhh, fuck, that's good. Bad for her wrists (she'll have to wear a big bracelet again tomorrow), but going straight to her cunt with the promise of enacting some revenge on Keats.

Alex bites her lip and nods distractedly at Ray, who clears out with four minutes and twenty-eight seconds to go. She breathes deep, trying not to press her legs together and squirm against the seam of her jeans. Even if the pressure would be amazing and exactly what she needs right now.

Four minutes.

Three minutes, forty-five. Three minutes, thirty. Three minutes, fifteen.

"Oi, Bolls, drag your nose away from the grindstone. It's pub time."

Oh shit. Shit, he would go wanting to make up to her _now_. He feels bad for what happened with Bevan, for not answering her and burning the jacket and oh, the idiot. He couldn't have done this last night, before she'd gone home with Keats and spilled more than her share of dirty little secrets to him? Before she'd made up her mind not to trust Gene?

She shifts closer to her desk, tucking her cuffed arm tight to her body and looking as calmly as she's able up at him. "Go on. I've got the tox screen to finish up, and then I promised to visit Rose Inman."

Being Gene, he invades her personal space, sitting on the edge of her desk, and she tries to quell the panic. Two minutes, forty-one.

"The man's not going to be any deader tomorrow, and Rose Inman is jumpier than a Tourette's patient. Let it go."

Her nails dig into her palm, and she shakes her head. "I know, I just want to be sure she's okay. I'll see you tomorrow."

Gene narrows his eyes at her, and Alex gives him the most devoid-of-guilt look she's capable of. And to add insult to injury, through the glass, she can see Keats standing in the hallway chatting with one of the plonks. She grits her teeth and casually flips the report over, scanning the next page, and doesn't look up as Gene mutters something under his breath, disappears into his office, and comes back with his coat and driving gloves. He nods a goodnight at her and disappears, and she exhales in what she doesn't want to call a sob, but is probably close to it.

Thirty-six seconds to go.

She straightens her desk as much as she's able with the cuff on, and sits there calmly as the lights flip to after-hours dimness and the seconds tick by. She almost expects the ten-minute mark to pass with a buzzer or something equally ridiculous, but Jim slips in the open door wearing one of the most smug grins she's ever seen in her life.

"Very good, Alex," he says, locking the door behind him and walking up the center aisle. She slides her chair back, showing him her still-cuffed hand, and his eyes close in approval. "Oh, even better. Why didn't you just open it? No one was in here."

"You know why," she says. He does. Because it knocked him off-balance. Because it shows she wanted to please him. Because she likes it when she can give up control.

He picks up the key, twirling it between those long fingers, and raises an eyebrow. "Do you want them off or on?"

She remembers last night - his tie around her wrists, mouth against her cunt, refusing to give her what she wanted until she screamed herself hoarse and begged the way he liked - and though she doesn't mind bondage, she wants to have both hands free for this.

"Off."

He unlocks the cuff on her wrist, and she's on him almost immediately, pushing him against her desk. He doesn't let her pin him, instead turning them and lifting her onto the desk. She goes for her own jeans first, a little distracted when he shoves her shirt up and unsnaps her bra, hands cupping her breasts. And oh no, he is not getting away with being fully clothed this time. She kisses him as distraction - and all right, fine, because she's wanted to wipe that smug grin off his face for hours - biting and licking her way into his mouth and laughing when he lets out a rather loud groan. She halfway thinks she'd like to shove him into the chair, cuff his hands behind his back, and have her way with him, but no, there's no time.

He goes still as she gets a hand between them, squeezes his cock through his pants and shudders as he captures both her wrists and holds them at her sides. They stare at each other, playing chicken - who's going to crack first? Normally, she'd bet on her, because Jim has shown that his self-control is stronger than most, but she can see the sheen of sweat on his upper lip and the bright glint to his eyes. Ohhh, did she strike a nerve? Throw him off his dominance ploy?

"Gonna pay me back for last night, Alex?" he rasps, pressing a kiss to the underside of her jaw. "I would, if I were you. Quite the loss of control."

She laughs softly, locking her legs around his waist. "I'd have been disappointed with anything less - meant you'd have failed to live up to all those promises. And I'm still waiting to collect on this one. Said you'd fuck me if I was a good girl and played along with your little handcuff games. Was that all talk?"

"Oh, sweetheart. Not in the slightest."

He lets her go, lets her unzip his trousers and push them off his arse. Watches her lay back on her desk, peeling her jeans and knickers off and moans in approval as she leaves her heels on. Alex pulls him toward her by the tie - a fresh one, not the striped black and grey one that held her wrists last night - and pushes herself up on her elbows to watch him stroke himself. Fuck all, he has pretty hands, all pale and slender against the flushed red of his cock, and he braces himself on the edge of the desk as he finally pushes inside her.

And this is real, it has to be, because nothing in your dreams can feel like this - spread out, stretched open, nerves jangling, blood rushing in your ears, stapler digging into your back. She whispers "come on, come on, please" into his ear, and loves it when he finally stops holding back and fucks her hard into the desk. She gets louder every time he hits her clit on an upstroke, and oh, she's going to come for him as easy as she did last night, isn't she?

He can feel her tensing, shaking around him, and when it hits, he kisses her through it. There are still people in the building, after all, she can't be too loud, so she grips his hair tightly and screams into his mouth. It's not soon after that he comes, wet hot rush inside her, and she loosens her grip, dragging her nails through messy curls in the way she knows he likes despite himself.

They do a lot of things in spite of themselves.


End file.
